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My First Italian Christmas

December 22 by Donna

Babbo Natale the Christmas Thief

Santa Claus has a distant relative in Italy called Babbo Natale and he can be seen shimming up drainpipes, sneaking into houses and hanging off balconies all over the place. Babbo often works alone, but can occasionally be seen with one or two other Babbo’s. He enters houses through a window or the balcony door, the thought that Babbo could arrive by chimney is ridiculous!

Winter of 2005 was our first Christmas and we were pleased that we had not yet seen anything here that comes close to the madness of the day after Thanksgiving mall-stampede that was televised here. It might not have been so embarrassing had it not followed a story on a bombing in a market in Iraq.

It was strange that the end of November passed and not a single twinkling light seen or Christmas carols heard.

“Christmas decorations go up the 8th of December and come down the 6th of January.” My friend Aldo Vacca explained like it’s one of those things that everyone knows, “Donna, you are living in a Catholic country now. We live by the liturgical calendar. The 8th of December is the day of Immaculate Conception and January 6th is the Epiphany”.

I had to look up liturgical in the dictionary.

At first I didn’t really care much abut the reason, I was just happy that I wasn’t being force fed holiday advertising in November – or October for that matter.

Without the distractions that normally surrounded us in early December, I started pondering the math. If December 8th is the day the guy born on December 25th was “immaculately conceived”. Wouldn’t that make it either the shortest or the longest pregnancy known to man? Not that I want to challenge any belief system here, I mean we are talking about the son of God, so none of the normal rules need apply, but I should remember something about this from my eight years of incarceration otherwise known as catholic school when I was forced to wear pleated skirts and urine colored blouses. I kept coming up empty.

None of the other Catholics that I checked with, American or Italian, fallen or otherwise, knew the how, what or why surrounding the details of the “immaculate conception”. So I googled it and even at dial up speed I discovered yet another reason to question the doctrine of organized religion. Come to find out that in fact it’s not the birth of Jesus who was “conceived immaculately” it was his mother Mary.

I realize I have spent far more time on this little kernel than any sane person would. But now that I have the answer I thought I would share it.

At some point along the way, the Vatican took time out from managing the Papal States and killing off uprisings to realize they had a conundrum on their hands. If the mother of Jesus wasn’t better than everyone else, like REALLY better, people might not believe that she was special enough to be the “mother of god”. I mean who really believed the whole virgin birth thing anyway? (I know my parents wouldn’t.) So some 1400 or so years after the fact, the pope of the day decided to turn back the hands of time and insert a little footnote into the history of the birth of Jesus and declare that Mary’s birth should be declared an “immaculate conception”. (I won’t take you down the rabbit hole surrounding the idea of Original Sin) So not only did they have the background check to do on Mary, we are now supposed to buy into the fact that Mary’s mother also had some sort of special mojo to be the mother of – the mother of Jesus.

I mean these guys are in the faith business aren’t they? Can’t they just say so and call it a day? Well, when you think about it I guess that’s what they did.

Either way, the timing worked out well with Mary being born on September 8th, they just subtracted nine months and with a strike of the pen they launched the Christmas holiday season in Italy.

If you’ve stuck with me this long, I hope you are still interested in some of the differences between Christmas in Italy and America:

– In Italy, they don’t decorate dead trees.

The choices come down to Alive or Artificial. When I explained to my friends here that in America we have a tradition of putting up and decorating a cut tree. Their response was more curious than judgmental, “So, you kill a tree for Christmas?” I never really thought about it that way, but yes we do. I explained that most of us don’t kill our trees personally. We have someone else do the dirty work and we pay handsomely for the service. Once cut we adorn the dying victim with decorations and by the time Christmas day arrives our houses are littered with brown needles and our once beautiful tree has become a fire hazard surrounded by presents. By New Year’s day all across America denuded tree-corpses can be found dumped unceremoniously like some unwanted reminder of the season of giving.

We opted for an Alive tree. Hopefully, we will be planting it in the ground in January (or March), but if we wanted to, we could return the tree to the place where we bought it and call the 15 Euros (or $19.50) we spent a rental fee.

– Everyone in this part of Italy has their Christmas meal at the same time.

Lunch on Christmas day. If there are conflicts, families combine or divide, that’s all there is to it. The bosses of the scheduling seem to be “those with children”. With a declining birth rate in Italy, most grandparents are willing to do whatever necessary to ensure first tier access to the offspring.

When I was a kid we had to eat two big meals on Christmas day so that neither set of grandparents would be relegated to the second string of Christmas Eve. In the late morning we would drive to Grandma-with-the-Alan’s house (because my fathers younger brothers name is Alan) with my parents warning us the whole way not to eat too much, which of course we did, then at 2:00 we were sprinted off to Grandma-with-the-birdie’s (because she used to have a bird. Even after it died the name stuck) who would give my mother the stink-eye because we were always late and we never ate much until after all the food was put away. We liked Christmas with Grandma-with-the-Alan because she cooked up a storm and she gave good presents that always included a certain amount of cash. We liked Grandma-with-the-Birdie because she taught us to play poker and blackjack, we could swipe cigarettes when no one was looking and everyone laughed, told stories and had fun. Especially after the first round of drinks.

– Reindeer Lore

The Italians I have met seem to understand the function of the reindeer solely as the animals that lead the delivery vehicle for Babbo Natale. Their version of reindeer seem to lack any landing on the roof capabilities that ours have, and there are questions about their ability to fly at all. Our friends here had no idea that Americans attached personalities to each individual reindeer, they were amazed that both John and I could remember all their names. We didn’t embarrass ourselves by singing “Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer”, but we were close, sadly close.

– In Italy gift-wrapping is more than a service – it is an art.

At any time of the year in Italy, if you tell a shop keeper the purchase is a “regalo”, no matter how many people are waiting, the purchase will be wrapped with flourish and without charge. The smaller the gift – the bigger the wrapping. Imagine how much less stress there is in the days leading up to Christmas when you don’t have to hunch over cheap wrapping paper and last years bows trying to wrap every single gift. Also, It has changed the way I shop to discover that there are no refunds here, exchanges only, and then only after a certain amount of interrogation and eye rolling.

– Greetings of “Buon Giorno” changes to “Auguri” the week before Christmas.

Auguri has a package of meanings that translates to wishes, hope and expectations – all good. I’m not sure yet what they say on New Years Eve, but New Years Day is called Capodanno (or capi d’ anno), which roughly translated means “Boss of the year”.

– Baby Jesu or Babbo Natale?

When asked who brought them their Christmas presents as a kid, most adults answer that that Baby Jesus brought them their presents on Christmas morning, however, their children and grandchildren are getting their presents from Babbo Natale. Another five years and there will be mall stampedes across the globe.

– Christmas stockings???

If you ask anyone young or old who fills their stockings with treasures or coal – the answer across the board is Befana.

Which brings us to the closing of the holiday season in Italy.

The fable of Befana is a bit more vague. It seems that one sect of the church thought that Jesus was born on the 6th of January, while another group has it that the wise men each separately had an epiphany that Jesus was born and when they went looking for him they met up on the road. They came across Befana an ugly old woman who was cleaning her house when they invited her to come along with them, but she turned them down. Afterwards, sensing she had missed out on something big she decided to go looking for the special child giving gifts to every child she found along the way. The story goes that on the morning of the 6th of January, Befana visits all small children and leaves them treats if they are good or coal if they are not.

I’m leaving my stocking up just in case…..

Setúbal – Portugal’s rich oasis

July 13 by John

John Anthony Rizzo | JnDMagazine.com | Portugal

Markets can tell you a lot about a town. Whenever I travel to a new city, I make a point of finding the fresh food market. The vendors, products and patrons all contribute to a story about the cuisine and culture of an area as well as the quality and quantity of local food producers.

The Livramento market in Setubal offers arrays of seafood in varieties that are integrated into the cuisine of this historic port town. Shrimp, cuttlefish, scores of whitefish, snails, sardines, eel and percebes all make their way into shoppers net bags and restaurant menus and ultimately in dishes like fish stews called migas or açordas caldeiradas, chocos fritos and very often the most satisfying is the most simple – fresh grilled fish. The smells emanating from the kitchens start making me hungry long before lunchtime begins.

The market is also adorned with one of the most beautiful blue tile walls I’ve ever seen. A beauty that is seemingly taken for granted by the men who pass their time chatting while waiting for their wives to shop.

The story this market tells is of the sea since Setúbal has been a fishing village throughout history because of its location on a natural inlet off the Atlantic Ocean. It is also protected by the Arrabida National Park, which gives this area some breathing room from development, where they cultivate olives, cork and sweet Setubal orange trees and provides grazing land that gives this region an ability to live the same way their ancestors did.

Setubal is also home to two DOC wines; Setúbal and Palmela as well as some of Portugal’s oldest and most respected wineries. There are also many microscopically small producers who sell wines at their gate (à portão).

Much of the area is flat and sandy, with the exception of the Serra da Arrábida, a short chain of mountains that stretch along the south coast of the peninsula. The soil in the hills is a mixture of limestone and clay. These slopes where they grow the grapes for their famous Moscatel de Setúbal DOC wines. It is a sweet and fragrant wine and has candied orange flavours and ages well to show nutty and toffy characteristics.

Palmela DOC is mainly red and made with the Castelão grape, which is grown in the hot and sandy soils of Palmela. These wines show a complexity and depth, balance and elegance with nice cherry flavoured fruit.

When I think back to the places where I’ve traveled, I always think of the people, and the pride they take in their products, and the history that is told through every glass of wine and every plate of food and every visit to their market. The Livramento market, the cheese makers, fishmongers, wineries, they will stay with me forever.

Transumanza in Stroppo

June 12 by Donna & John

In the days before the annual pilgrimage of the cows arriving on our mountain for the annual transumanza the pastore arrive to prepare the road by tying a thin white string along the roadside from Paschero to Morinesio, both are small hamlets in the area called Stroppo. Somehow a string that I could snap with my hands is sufficient to keep 100 1,000 pound animals from straying off the road. I later figured out it is because the cows have been trained to fear the white string because on the farm in the valley, the white string has an electrical charge!

Large trucks transport the cows to the parking lot in Paschero where the Municipio is located. The animals happily exit the trailers and begin their slow ascent being coaxed along by the pastore and herding dogs.

The procession takes about an hour, so if you happen to be driving up or down the hill at that particular moment there is no other option than to wait and watch.

Early in the morning while laying in bed the sound of cow-bells and dogs barking in the distance announce the arrival of the cows. John grabs his cameras to try to get ahead of the arrival.

The cows pass through our village to their first stopping point in a field between Morinesio and Cucchiales where they proceed to denude the entire place of every flower that grew there before. In the years that we have lived here I’ve learned that the cows not only provide a grass cutting service, but the effect the particular flowers, grass and herbs that grow in Vale Maira are different than the varieties that grow in the other nearby valleys and those different plant varieties have a notable impact on the flavour of the milk and ultimately the cheese. These cows have been eating hay all winter and when they arrive on the mountain the competition among the beasts for different flowers and fauna is amazing to watch.

After the cows have eaten all that is edible and rested from climbing the mountain the pastore along with his sentry dogs will be their constant companions throughout the summer, move the herd to the next field higher up the mountain. There are a few milking stations in different places on the mountain, but oftentimes the milking is done manually mid field to keep a constant supply flowing to the local cheese makers.

As the summer progresses and different flowers bloom in different fields the cows continue to climb enjoying their summer home in the cool mountain breezes.

In September when the nights begin to get cold, the decent will begin. The fields will have recovered and will provide a different array of plants to offer the ever-hungry cows as they climb down the mountain. The night before they leave Stroppo, we can hear their bells and mooing in the same field where they spend their first night the previous spring. In the morning they pass through our village on their way down to the trucks waiting in the same parking lot in Paschero that will take them back to the farm where they will spend the winter. Even though climbing down the hill is easier both the pastore and the cows seem to go much slower with less stress and excitement.

Leaving the open fields with beautiful views, sweet fresh mountain air and natural spring water is melancholy for all.

Sadly, we are selling our lovely home in Morinesio – Stroppo. You can find more information about it here.

Breathtaking Barbaresco

April 8 by Donna

The first time John and I traveled to Barbaresco it was for only one night. We met up with our good friends Cathy and David before heading south to Perugia so John could photograph a cookbook on Umbrian cuisine. Cathy Whims was the food stylist and David and I were to play the role of the “jolly”, which in Italian restaurants is the person who does whatever is necessary, from helping in the kitchen to running errands to washing dishes. The entire Umbrian experience deserves its own story, but I always remember the beginning of our love affair with Barbaresco started that night.

Meeting Aldo Vacca in Barbaresco, drinking Nebbiolo and eating tajarin made by Cinto in the trattoria Antica Torre, all of these firsts that we had no idea just how often would be repeated. How many bottles of Nebbiolo and Barbaresco, how many incredible meals of roast rabbit and boiled chicken and the ethereal tajarin made first my Cinto, and then by his son Maurizio.

That night if someone told me that only a few years later John and I would move to Neive, one of the Barbaresco wine growing villages a few kilometres away from Barbaresco, I don’t think I would believe them. It would have been unimaginable that we would spend over ten years with these people in this beautiful place, living our lives in the cycle of the vineyards.

The pruning in the winter, training the vines soon after.Managing the incredible growth of these prolific vines in the late spring and early summer only to reduce the production just as the grapes begin turning from green to purple.

Feeling the nervous anticipation while the weeks pass from September to October, checking weather, comparing notes, sometimes praying. And finally the culmination of a years work that comes down to a week or ten days of intense work knowing that at any moment Mother Nature is the one true boss that can bring joy and sometimes devastation.

Once the grapes are pressed and in the cellars, the work takes on a whole new phase, the mechanised and managed part of the process that is important, but the work in the other eleven and a half months is what a vintage makes.

The beauty of this place is obvious to see it, to walk in the vineyards, to celebrate the harvest, to taste it in every glass of this incredible wine. But for me, it is these people and their history is what makes this a truly breathtaking place to be.

Sunday Afternoons in Serralunga

December 4 by Donna & John

Sunday is the longest day of the week in our small corner of Italy. Shops are closed. Friends spend time with their families. Sunday lunch in Piemonte is often a long, drawn-out eating extravaganza that keeps you full until the following day.

While we’ve had more than our share of these long gluttonous meals, the thought of spending hours in a restaurant on a sunny Sunday afternoon is too claustrophobic. John likes to ride his bike during lunchtime as the roads are virtually deserted. He sends me a text message with his destination and estimated arrival time.

One our favorite places is Centro Storico in Serralunga. They don’t care how much or little you eat or drink, the menu is simple yet delicious and changes often. Their extensive wine list has great choices from the region, but what makes it appealing for many locals is the array of wines from Champagne and other regions. Alessio Cighetti runs the wine service and the impressive sliced meat and cheese counter while his wife Stefana and her mother Silvana do their magic in their small kitchen above the wine bar.

Artisanal Cheese Making – Maritime Alps

November 11 by Donna

Before moving to Italy, I would have long conversations with the very nice people at the cheese counter at Pastaworks in Portland, Oregon. They knew so much about the processes, altitudes, breeds of cows, sheep and goats. Cheese was one of the exotic flavors that brought me to Europe. The agricultural society where small food artisans are supported by the people in their area. One lesson it took me a few years to get my head around was how very different the cheese tastes at different times of the year. Spring flowers and herbs give their floral quality to fresh cheeses. Summer as the animals move higher up the mountain, affect the flavors in more complex ways, autumn the flowers are gone and grasses let the cheese express the fat characteristics and winter, well, winter is the season to enjoy a cheese plate, which in Italy means a selection of 10 or 12 various flavors – all within a two hour drive.

These shots are from the village of Elva, Stroppo near Cuneo.